


To breathe that old breath once more

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, M/M, Narcissism, Possession, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 20:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: To see himself reflected, young and old, bound together by stone and secrets, an impossible success at the heart of the Panopticon. It brought a thrill to him, each time greater than the last, as he slowly neared completion, the culmination of everything he’d built.Elias pays his old body a visit.





	To breathe that old breath once more

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the idea goes to this wonderful nonnie who suggested "Concept: Elias fucks his own eyeless husk."
> 
> https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/393474.html?thread=2317032706#cmt231

His footsteps echoed in the cavernous chamber, as he made his way to the watchtower. Though it’d been weeks since his transfer, he still found a certain thrill in the ease with which he took the steps, the way his heart beat strong, unburdened by the wear of age. James had not been elderly, but he’d never liked to leave it too late. Not after the first time, when he’d almost failed, frail body nearly breaking under the strain of the binding. 

A body that still held together under its weight, laid out before him as he entered the tower’s central room. Resting on a pedestal, clothed in a pale robe, the withered chest still slowly rising and falling, while empty sockets stared into the Eye above. A mere representation, but symbolism had its value. Robert had always had an eye for that, and though this particular design was not his own, the inspiration had been drawn from him, a domed fresco surrounded by carved figures in the Classical style. A woman screamed in ecstasy as her flesh was consumed, while another figure was slowly wrapped in a loving silk embrace. Further on, a man stood alone in a graveyard, the stone unnaturally cold as Elias ran a fond finger along his back.

Elias. It was still strange, to think that name, but each time the name meant less. He had been James, he was now Elias. Once, he’d been Jonah, mind held in the husk he’d long abandoned. William had certainly been the strangest, unused as he was to the resurgence of youth, making awkward attempts to reign in his own idiosyncrasies, to ape the mannerisms of the poor fool he’d taken for a host. Before he’d realized that no one much cared, if a young wastrel turned stern, and took on the responsibility he’d long avoided. 

In time, the change had grown more familiar than the embrace of the flesh he’d been born with. Still, it was what had held him longest. And the only flesh that had been his alone. Though he’d made the odd attempt over the years, he’d not yet found a way to cut his ties entirely. So he turned back to the pedestal, to examine what lay there. 

The body didn’t need tending, at least not to the extent a mortal body in this seeming coma would. The sustenance provided by the Eye sustained him, and that sustenance still flowed from the husk, the binding point for all he’d become. But he’d found that while not prone to any ordinary decay, it didn’t hurt to maintain certain aspects of hygiene from time to time. To change the loose robes, brush out the steel grey hair, trim the slow growth of beard on the weathered face. A task he’d undertaken recently enough that he did not do it now, placing a hand instead on the chest revealed by the loose robe. 

Under his hand, the heart beat steadily, a warmth beyond simple body heat suffusing his fingers. With each thump, he found his own heart slip into a steadier rhythm, soothed by the sounds of the core of what he was. Once they fell into true synchrony, his hand slid lower, unfastening the tie of the robe and pulling it fully open.

Exposed, the body wasn’t much to look at. A thin, pale man, of indeterminate but very advanced age. Not as decrepit as he should be, given he’d passed two hundred years. But certainly not in the full flush of health. Not like Elias, who let his hand linger on one bony hip, broad and strong with the vigor of a man not yet thirty. He smiled at the sight, drinking it in before turning his gaze to the mirror. 

Vanity, Robert had said. But then he’d never wanted to understand. The desire to see and be seen, something he’d craved, but always avoided, even as Elias embraced it. To see himself reflected, young and old, bound together by stone and secrets, an impossible success at the heart of the Panopticon. It brought a thrill to him, each time greater than the last, as he slowly neared completion, the culmination of everything he’d built. A pity still, that Robert had rejected it in the end. But that pang had long worn smooth, a memory more fond than melancholy. 

After all, how could he be anything but proud of what he’d built? His hand slipped along the thigh, shifting the leg a bit. Then going to the other, adjusting it as well, before reaching up to return the robe to its covering. But as he reached for the tie, his hand brushed the flaccid cock. Hardly strange, or even truly sexual. It was his own, after all. And yet when he did, he felt a shiver run through him. An echo of the pleasure that touch had brought. 

Again, his eyes went to the mirror, to see his own form towering over the fragile heart of what he was. His hand went back to the cock, idly stroking as he felt the echo again. A strange, perverse desire. But then he’d long passed any notions of propriety. And he found himself rather…curious. 

The dry strokes would not be enough to do more than tease at his advanced age. And so he knelt between the legs of the supine form, lifting his eyes to stare back at himself as he took the flaccid cock into his mouth. Drawing it deeper, until he inhaled the cool, dry scent of the body, tongue cradling the thin, wrinkled skin of the cock. He repeated the motion, a hand moving behind to idly toy with the scrotum, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on himself. 

The scene he made was one of erotic decadence, an excess he might once have considered beneath himself. But the centuries had washed away any lingering remnants of his austere Anglican upbringing, the words of his father replaced by the words of something far greater than his God. And perhaps some of this body’s former occupant had lingered, the hedonism of a wealthy youth with uncaring parents. Or maybe it was simply that novelty became more precious, as the years went on. 

Whatever it was, he found his own cock stirring, straining against the finely tailored trousers. Still, he’d have to be patient, if he wanted to do this right, to test the resilience of a far older body. Drawing back again, he tasted a hint of precome on his tongue, the cock hardening in his mouth. Effort well-rewarded, if he kept at it, hollowing his cheeks and taking the cock into his throat.

He swallowed around it, savoring the way his lungs burned as he struggled for air, and the cock hardened further, enough for him to draw back, to hastily discard trousers and underwear, before returning to now straddle the body. With only a second’s hesitation, he spit on his hand, preferring other methods but not inclined to quibble in this particular scenario. It would do well enough, and he was hardly a blushing virgin. And his original body had, in truth, never been all that well-endowed. 

Slipping his fingers inside his hole, he made quick work of it, taking only a moment to rub against his prostate as his cock bobbed eagerly. But he didn’t have time for that, if he wanted this to work. So he ignored it, instead reaching for the cock of his old body, guiding it towards his hole as he eased himself down. 

He gritted his teeth as he got used to the sensation, not entirely pleasant with the substandard lubrication, but almost better for it. If he’d wanted only pleasant things, he’d had died long before now, a placid and unremarkable clergyman’s son, who’d never made much of himself at all. But Elias had never been content with that life, the hunger unfilled by anything but this. He lifted his body, coming down again with a groan, savoring the sting, the penetration and the feeling of it, twined together into new heights of sensation. Terrifying, and terrible, and everything he wanted, the perverse and strange, the unseen revealed in the harsh lights and mirrors. Again he rose, and fell harder still, thighs straining as he increased his pace, staring into the mirror, and watching his eyes stare back from it. 

Sweat pricked on his brow, and he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, prying them apart to reveal the muscled expanse of his chest. The fabric clung to it, an obscene outline revealing what was his, what he’d idly desired. Taken by him in more than one way, as the cock slid in and out, sensation sparking across every nerve ending where they met, and became one. His hands twitched, digging into his purchase around hips, aching to reach for his own throbbing cock, but resisting, knowing that once experienced, once known, it could not be unknown again. And wanting his completion to come from something deeper than simple touch. 

Thus, he turned his attention away from the mirror, from the eyes, and instead to their origin. Leaning down towards the wrinkled face, lips ghosting over the cheek before reaching the true prize, gouged deep under the forehead. Tongue sliding over the scarred and pitted flesh, he groaned at the memory of pain, the sharp slice of the knife. Anesthetic refused, the stink of chloroform gladly pushed aside. To experience it fully, the terror of failure, of death clawing at the edges of his vision. Followed by the burn of the acid, a new innovation from an upstart surgeon. Jonathan had always sought out the latest methods, and he was never one to neglect a patient, not even one he’d loved and loathed. Cutting in, even while he protested he was no surgeon himself. But that didn’t matter. Not when he’d wanted to know. The memory swam sweetly before his eyes as Elias brought his mouth to the other socket, tasting the knotted tissue, shuddering and clenching around the cock as the sweet ache of it was mirrored behind his eyes. As it throbbed, hot and low, in both their bodies. 

For a moment, he held, pressing the eyes into their sockets, bodies flush and slick with sweat. Until finally he could hold no more, he lifted his gaze from the body, past the mirror, to the Eye. Staring into and out of it. Letting out a moan as he saw in doubled vision the sight of him, impaled upon what he was, filling what he had become. He slammed his body down, almost too hard, jarring the weaker form below him, but it stayed firm. Still so much stronger than it looked. The angle of his movements barely mattered as he was pinned under the gaze, watching and being watched, his worship consumed, a new ritual to feed the Eye. Though his hands remained where they were, he felt the echo of balls tightening, the heat of climax, his own. And his. Again, he lifted himself on shaking thighs, only to slide as deep as he could one final time, feeling it flood into him, warm and vital even now, after all this time. Followed only seconds after by his own cock, spurting across the thin chest, catching in the neat hairs of the beard. 

Caught in the afterglow, he found himself leaning forward again, slipping off the softening cock to press a kiss to his old lips, to drink in the taste of his semen there, to twine their tongues together, and for a moment, to breathe that old breath once more.


End file.
